


on your own (you are not alone)

by skatzaa



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon Typical Violence, De-Serumed Steve Rogers, Fanart, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Post-The Winter Soldier, Sam!Cap, canon AU, mentions of Bucky Barnes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 05:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11268837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatzaa/pseuds/skatzaa
Summary: It’s Fury that comes to Sam as he’s sitting in the waiting room of a hospital somewhere in Teotihuacán.“Listen, Wilson,” Fury says. “It isn’t good. Stark and his people are in with Rogers now, but I wanted to talk to you first.”“Do they know what happened?”“They’re still running some tests.” Fury brings a hand up to his face, like he means to rub his good eye. His fingertips leave smears on the lens of his sunglasses. “But preliminary DNA results show that Rogers’ DNA matches the samples taken before his… procedure in 1943.”





	on your own (you are not alone)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FowlProse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FowlProse/gifts).



> Hey y'all, this is my Cap Reverse Big Bang entry for [FowlProse's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FowlProse/pseuds/FowlProse) wonderful pieces of art, which are embedded throughout the fic. Fowly, it was so great to work on this collab with you, I'm so glad I got your art!
> 
> This was difficult to write, but in the best of ways. I may add tags and edit the notes as time goes on; I don't really have a lot of brain power at the moment, so I'm sure there's something I'm missing. **A disclaimer:** aside from asthma, Steve and I don't share any of the same diagnoses. That being said, please let me know if anything in the fic—related to Steve's diagnoses or not—is incorrect or offensive. I will do my best to fix any issues.
> 
> Title from the song Portugal by Walk the Moon.

It’s Fury that comes to Sam as he’s sitting in the waiting room of a hospital somewhere in Teotihuacán. Natasha is gone, off to find them more coffee, and Sam knows the timing isn’t a coincidence. 

Fury sits in the chair to Sam’s right, sunglasses still on. How he found them so quickly is a mystery, one Sam suspects has red hair. How _she_ knew where they were, however, is a little harder to figure out, because neither of them have spoken with Natasha in close to a month. 

“Shouldn’t you be dead?” Sam asks. 

Beside him, Fury sighs. The material of his gaudy track suit crinkles as he shifts. “This would be a hell of a lot easier for me if I was.” 

Sam doesn’t dignify that with a response. Across the room, the nurse at the desk is replaced by a young woman whose headscarf matches her scrubs. They smile and exchange quiet words, then the first one takes his leave. 

“Listen, Wilson,” Fury says. “It isn’t good. Stark and his people are in with Rogers now, but I wanted to talk to you first.” 

Of course Stark is here. Sam figured it wouldn’t be good, but he hates to have it confirmed. That fall would have been enough to bruise even a super soldier, and Steve… 

Well. 

Sam leaves it at _not good._

“Do they know what happened?” 

“They’re still running some tests.” Fury brings a hand up to his face, like he means to rub his good eye. His fingertips leave smears on the lens of his sunglasses. “But preliminary DNA results show that Rogers’ DNA matches the samples taken before his… procedure in 1943.” 

It takes Sam a moment to connect the dots, but when he does he puts his head in his hands. Goddamnit. The serum. 

“Is it permanent?” 

“So far,” Fury says. It’s only been a day, maybe less, since Natasha met him at the doors to the emergency room. That might be worth something, if Fury was making light of the situation. But he’s not. As far as they know, Steve is out of commission for good, at least concerning the uniform. 

“What does this mean?” Sam wishes he could do more than sit in a waiting room and ask questions of a dead man, but he can’t. He’s thinking about Steve, and what losing the serum will do to his health, how it will affect Steve’s life as it is today, which consists mostly of hunting a ghost, sleeping in crappy motel rooms, and long distance phone calls with Natasha. 

Sam is asking about his friend, and his friend’s happiness, but Fury says, “It means we want you to take up the shield.” 

It feels like every single time he jumped out of a plane, knowing his wings were there to catch him but not opening them quite yet. The world is rushing past him but all Sam can focus on is: Captain America isn’t Captain America without Steve Rogers. The shield means nothing if Steve isn’t the one holding it. 

He picks his head up and looks at Fury, who peruses a magazine like he hasn’t a care in the world. 

“Who’s we?” Sam manages. It’s the least important question right now, but it’s the first thing out of his mouth anyway. 

“Interested parties.” He doesn’t sound like he has more to add. 

“Look,” Sam says. He sort of wants to punch Fury in the face, but it’s impulses like that that nearly got him court-martialed after Riley’s death—and also put him in a position to meet Steve. “You can’t just—put on the suit and be Cap. It doesn’t work that way.” 

“You’re the one who said you do what Cap does,” Fury flips to the next page. “Just slower.” 

Sam definitely wants to punch him. 

One of the fluorescent lights flickers. The pretty nurse picks up the phone and begins dialing a number. Sam wonders where Natasha is, if she was one of the interested parties. They haven’t been apart for more than a few minutes since he brought Steve here and Sam doesn’t like being suspicious of a friend, so he hopes that isn’t the case, but he knows how to be realistic. 

He’s grasping at straws, but Sam asks, “What about Steve? Did you think about what this would do to him?” 

Fury closes the magazine. “The ego of one superhero is not my concern. The _world_ is my concern.” 

That isn’t what he meant and they both know it. Sam clenches his hand into a fist but doesn’t say anything. He wonders when people like Fury started to make decisions for everyone, in the name of safety, because it’s moments like this that let people like Pierce into positions of power. 

Fury stands. The magazine returns to the side table, cover down. “We’ll be in touch. You’ll be expected back in the States soon though.” 

He leaves the room moments before Natasha returns from her coffee run, coming from the opposite side of the hospital. 

Her hair is faded and twisted back but still noticeably red, and her eyes are bloodshot and tired. Sam smiles, accepts his coffee, and waits until she wanders away to flirt with the nurse, in a language that isn’t Spanish or English, to flip over Fury’s magazine. 

It’s a gossip rag, the kind you can buy at the grocery store for a few dollars. It still has all of the usual stories about celebrity betrayals and a supposed alien abduction, but right in the center, where no one can miss it, is a picture of Steve, falling down the stairs of the Pyramid of the Sun. 

The headline reads: SUPER SOLDIER, SUPER FALL? 

He flips it back over. 

* * *

Steve starts to notice the changes after the helicarriers. 

At first, he chalks it up to lingering damage from his fight with Bucky. He’s never quite taken a beating like that, and his body twinges in more than a few places for a surprising amount of time afterward. 

He struggles to breathe, too, but he did technically drown in the Potomac. And once he’s cleared for travel by one of Stark’s many medical friends, he and Sam head straight to Moscow to track down evidence for the origin of the Soldier. They gain access to the old military records because someone in the Kremlin owes Nat a favor, which means they spend weeks sifting through dusty, yellowed pages in the hope that whatever soldier found Bucky at the bottom of that ravine filled out a report that managed to survive seventy years. It’s a long shot and Steve knows it, but Sam never points it out because he’s an actual angel. 

They both end up sneezing a lot from the dust, and Steve writes off the constant tightness in his chest as a byproduct of that and moves on. 

They don’t find anything about finding Bucky, but they do manage to get a hold of some files—ones that were definitely off limits, even for friends of the Widow—that talk about a reinforced bunker somewhere in Siberia. None of the files say what the bunker is for, but the authorizing name on the funds requisition form catches Steve’s eye: even in Cyrillic, he recognizes _Karpov_. It would be hard not to, with how often it shows up in the file Nat gave him back in Arlington. Further along in the same document, coordinates for the location are provided. 

They go to Siberia. 

It’s cold and bleak, both inside and outside of the bunker. Even the colors of the shield seem muted. Steve pulls the neck of his jacket up to cover his nose and follows Sam in. 

They don’t find Bucky, but Steve wasn’t really expecting to. They find five others, immobile in what Steve assumes are cryogenic chambers. The sixth is empty. 

He steps forward, because they can’t help Bucky right now but they can help these people, whoever they may be. 

Sam puts his hand on Steve’s arm. His voice is quiet when he says, “Steve, we don’t know who they are, but if they’re in there we shouldn’t wake them.” 

Steve moves closer to the first one, takes in the man’s muscles, his severe haircut and stony face. Maybe Sam has a point, but they can’t leave them here. Who knows how long they’ve been frozen already, and nobody deserves to spend eternity like that. 

He doesn’t remember his dreams from his time on the ice, and he doesn’t know if medically induced cryogenics works differently, but he still sometimes wakes up convinced none of this is real, that he’s still lost in the Arctic somewhere. 

He wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy. 

Steve steps back. Sam touches his arm, gently, and they head for the surface. 

He doesn’t look at the sixth chamber. When they get to the surface, he pulls out his phone to call Nat and doesn’t focus on how dull the sky seems. 

*

They’re in Mexico City when his back starts hurting and doesn’t stop. 

He and Sam have been on the road for months, hopping from city to city and country to country however they can, following tip after tip. They try not to draw attention to the fact that Captain America is waltzing around, without backup, in places that would probably like to see him dead. But they aren’t too quiet, because Steve is hoping that the right rumors will reach the right ears, and Bucky will come in from the cold on his own. 

It’s been months, and they’re only in Mexico City on a coerced tip from an old Soviet scientist who spent time in the city for several years, working with native scientists on a replacement for the serum. They’re both exhausted, Sam more than Steve, and that’s why Steve doesn’t object when Sam says, “Man, can we pretend we’re actually tourists for once? I’ve always wanted to see the pyramids of Teotihuacán.” 

Well. He has to ask Sam to repeat himself, because the foot-traffic around them is a little too loud. But he agrees, because he wouldn’t mind seeing them, and it’ll be nice to have something else to focus on for an afternoon. They stop for lunch, and pain flares in Steve’s stomach as they eat, probably from the spices in the dish he chose. 

The next day, Sam vetoes paying for a tour, instead pulling up a website that tells them all the “Must See” spots, and they go from one to another. Steve gets winded climbing the steps of the Pyramid of the Moon, but it’s worth it to see the rest of the compound, and the brilliant grin on Sam’s face as he takes it all in. The intricate carvings on The Temple of Quetzalcoatl are incredible, and Steve almost wishes he had a sketchbook with him. 

He needs to take a break before they head to the Pyramid of the Sun, because his lower back aches, and he can feel his heartbeat pounding unevenly in his chest, almost like—almost, well. It can’t possibly be that, so he takes another minute and then smiles at Sam and follows him up the pyramid. 

They’re almost halfway up when he has to swing his leg to one side in order to get it up to the next step. He frowns, but everyone else is struggling too; the stairwell is so steep they have signs warning tourists to be careful. He turns to look over his shoulder at Sam as he goes to take the next step, but something spasms in his lower back, and he over-balances, and he falls. 

He falls backward, and the last thing he sees as he goes is Sam’s stricken face as he reaches for Steve. 

*

Steve wakes in a hospital bed with a nasal cannula hooked over his ears. 

He wants to laugh over the fact that hospital rooms are the same no matter where in the world a person goes, and that he’s been in enough of them to know that, but something feels wrong. 

Something is very wrong. 

He sits up and can feel the pain in his back, his stomach, his chest. There are bruises on his arms and sides, and they hurt like a bitch, but this pain is different. Steve knows what this is. 

He looks at his hands and isn’t surprised to see thin fingers and bony wrists. His strange calluses, built up from so much time handling the shield, are gone. He flexes his jaw and can feel the difference in his face; his shoulders feel frail and stooped; his thighs and calves rail thin. 

“Steve?” Someone asks. 

Steve looks up and sees Dr. Cho standing at the head of a small group of people. Two of them look like they might be local doctors, but he’s pretty sure he also sees Stark, hiding somewhere in the back. His eyesight is terrible, blurry and strained, but he’s pretty sure that’s either Stark’s distinctive facial hair, or a copycat fan of Iron Man. 

He’s met Helen Cho once before, when a mission took them to South Korea and then promptly went to shit, and Stark called in a favor from a friend. Dr. Cho is a geneticist, but she was able to get them the care they needed at the time. 

To see her standing before him now is strange, and Steve doesn’t think the news she has for him will be good. 

“Where’s Sam?” He never thought, when he first got the serum, that there was a difference in his voice, but it feels glaringly obvious now, the lack of power behind his words. It’s hard to sound certain and firm when every breath is shallow and useless. 

“Mr. Wilson is in the waiting room with Agent Romanoff,” someone else says. Steve isn’t sure who it is. How long has he been out, if Nat has arrived already? 

“Steve,” Dr. Cho says again. “Are you aware of what’s happened?” 

“The serum is gone,” he says. Steve has no idea how it’s happened, but there can’t be any other explanation. He looks at his feet, hidden under the blankets. They’re maybe the only part of him that hasn’t gotten any smaller, but that doesn’t make him feel any better. 

Dr. Cho moves to sit down in the chair by the side of his bed. He glances at her kind face but has to look away. She’s a geneticist. She isn’t here to tell him that he’s smaller again, anyone could have handed him a mirror and been done with it. She’s here for some other reason. 

Steve asks, “Do we know _why_ it disappeared?” 

The pack of men and women stay back, murmuring between themselves, but they’re too far away and on Steve’s bad side; he wouldn’t be able to hear what they were saying even if he wanted to, but he doesn’t, so it doesn’t matter. 

“We—” Dr. Cho looks over her shoulder for an instant “—have a hypothesis. It seems as though, when Dr. Erskine was originally creating the serum, he was aware of its shortcomings. We don’t have the formula for his serum, but we do have his original notes. The serum was only meant to be temporary—” 

Someone says something to cut her off, and Steve can’t hear the words, but he certainly recognizes the voice. 

“Stark,” he says, annoyed to the point of being petty enough to not look in Stark’s direction. “You’re on my bad side, I need you to come closer.” 

Stark picks his way through the crowd and comes to stand behind Dr. Cho’s shoulder. His voice is fast, like he’s had far too much coffee recently, when he starts again. Steve looks back at them. 

“Think of it like a battery. You only got so much of the serum, and it could only take so much damage before it eventually began to wear off.” Stark runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. Steve wishes his room had a window, so he could have an excuse to look away from them. “Even if Erskine factored in the front-line mortality rate of soldiers and the potential for future wars, the serum should have taken you to your death, more or less, wearing off gradually and allowing you to age eventually.” 

Steve hasn’t noticed any aging, but he’s only been out of the ice for little more than three years, and he didn’t have the serum for that long in the forties. It’s been six years, maybe. It shouldn’t have worn off so fast. 

He looks at Dr. Cho and she nods, like she knows what he’s thinking. “But it was still temporary,” she says, “if long acting. However, you spent seventy years in the ice, with nothing but the serum working to keep you alive. That’s bound to take a toll.” 

Stark jumps in again, eyes wide and red, “Plus, I think you’ve been taking _more_ damage than Erskine factored for over the past three years. The serum can regenerate your cells nearly as fast as you can damage them, but between New York in ‘11 and the helicarriers this year, and the fact that you _didn’t die_ , it just...burned out.” 

Steve burrows his hands into the blankets on either side of his legs and tries to ignore the burning in pretty much his whole body. “If only the serum wore off, why am I small as well? I though Howard said the Vita Rays were for growth.” 

Dr. Cho and Stark exchange a glance, and Stark grimaces, but opens his mouth anyway. “I took a look through Dad’s files on my way here, and it seemed like the Vita Rays only stuck around because of the serum. Normally, their radiation wore off after about a day or two.” 

Howard. 

Howard had notes. Maybe, in the years after Steve went in the ice, he had developed a second serum? 

“Can we replicate the serum?” He asks. For the first time since he woke up, Dr. Cho won’t look him in the eyes. His heart falls. 

“I’m afraid not. Because Erskine never documented his formula, all attempts at replicating it have been unsuccessful—you’ve met Dr. Banner, for example,” Dr. Cho says. She reaches up and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “Howard Stark got close, from what we can tell, but his attempts were lost when he died.” 

Stark looks away and clenches his jaw. 

“Furthermore,” Dr. Cho continues, “the unsuccessful formulae have proven to be exceedingly painful and nearly always fatal. In that regard, Dr. Banner was luckier than most.” 

Steve remembers a conversation on the helicarrier, years ago, that he shouldn’t have overheard. He remembers it going much like this. 

He wonders if anyone remembers that his serum wasn’t exactly a walk in the park either. The United States Government wasn’t particularly worried about his safety—they just wanted their super soldier army before the Germans got theirs, no matter the cost. 

He remembers Siberia, then. “There were soldiers in cryo, in Siberia. Sam and I found them. What about them? Wouldn’t they have a version of the serum we could replicate?” 

Dr. Cho face twists up in surprise. Behind her, Stark is equally shocked. Steve’s heart sinks. They don’t know. Whatever happened with those people in the cryo chambers, Nat—and, by extension, Fury, he’s sure—kept it to themselves. Those men and women are probably dead now, and with them his last hope at going back to how he was. 

They give him a few minutes to allow it to sink in. His health is gone, his size and strength are gone. There are no relatively safe ways to get it back. 

He’s stuck like this. 

Just as his heart starts to beat a little harder and his breaths start coming in shorter gasps, Dr. Cho says, “the good news is that we have ways to help you now, with your conditions. You can be healthy, Steve, as healthy as medicine and treatments can manage.” 

Medicine and treatments. At least he doesn’t have to worry about money. He can do this, if he wants. He can take whatever Dr. Cho and the others suggest, and hopefully he’ll feel better than he did everyday for the first twenty-four years of his life. 

Steve sinks back into his pillows and lets them tell him his options. 

*

It isn’t until later that Sam comes in, looking exhausted and cautious. He sits where Dr. Cho was earlier, folds his hands in his lap, and looks at Steve. Not expectantly, or with pity, or disappointment. Sam just looks. 

Steve can’t take it; he turns his face away and stares at the foot of his hospital bed. “They say they can fix my feet.” 

“Your feet?” Sam asks. From the corner of his eye, Steve can see him half stand from his chair. His voice carries but isn’t noticeably louder, and Steve could cry at how considerate Sam is, though he can’t know he’s on Steve’s bad side. Steve never told him about that, or a lot of other things. “Is there something wrong with your feet? Did you hurt them in the fall?” 

“No. I have flat feet.” Steve feels bad for scaring Sam, but he can’t make himself sound more reassuring. Instead, he stares at his toes underneath the blanket. They barely make it halfway down the length of the mattress and he hates the sight of them. “I think Tony mentioned it to prove they can help me with all of my problems, not just the really bad ones.” 

Sam is quiet. Steve wishes he could know what he’s thinking, if he’s realizing just how _many_ problems Steve has. Even with medication and physical therapy and possibly surgery, Steve will never be entirely healthy again. 

He knows he’ll have to give up the shield, even if no one has mentioned it yet. He doesn’t want to know who they’ll give it to instead, but he has a feeling. Better to ask now, though, rather than waiting to have this conversation in front of an audience. 

“Has—” he starts to say, just as Sam says, “Steve—” 

They both hesitate, but when neither speaks first, Sam motions with one hand for Steve to go on. 

“Has Fury contacted you?” Steve asks. Sam grimaces, a little downturn of his mouth, and that’s all Steve needs to know. “They want you to take the shield.” 

Sam doesn’t deny it, and Steve is glad. He’s also glad that Sam doesn’t try to tell Steve he won’t agree to do it, because they both know that would be a lie. Sam can’t stop himself from helping others anymore than Steve can, and the shield is the best way for either of them to do that right now. 

Steve nods, and they lapse into silence. 

“Steve,” Sam says, a bit later. “You know this all means you’ll have to stop searching for Bucky, right?” 

Between the doctors and the shock of waking up like this, he hadn’t thought about it, actually. But Steve can’t deny that Sam has a point. They’ve been running on fumes for weeks now, and Steve’s body won’t be up for the challenge of chasing Bucky across continents, not to mention if he actually manages to catch up and things turn ugly. And with Sam probably heading back to the States, maybe even straight to the Avengers, Steve can’t continue on his own. 

He sighs and leans further back against the pillows. His eyes hurt, along with the rest of his body, and he just wants to sleep until this all looks like a bad dream. But that isn’t going to happen. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I guess I’ll… head home with you.” 

Sam nods and reaches out to squeeze Steve’s shoulder, briefly. Then he settles back in his chair and pulls out his phone, obviously not going anywhere, but also expecting nothing of Steve. 

Steve isn’t sure what he did to deserve someone like Sam in his life, but he’d do it all over again—everything, except maybe what happened to Bucky, because that isn’t his pain to bear—if it means having Sam by his side like this. 

“Sam—” he starts. Sam looks up. Whatever was in Steve’s head falls right out of it again, and all he can say is, “thank you.” 

Sam gives him a little smile, and Steve can’t help but remember the last time this happened, when he let Bucky wreck him but at least had the safety net of the serum to build him back up again, once it became clear he wasn’t dying. Now, there’s just his broken-down body, his sheer force of will to continue living, and Sam. 

He shifts lower on the bed and closes his eyes until he falls asleep, but not before thinking: at least I have Sam. 

*

They wait until Steve is more or less healthy, at least, before shipping them back to the States, and no one mentions handing over the shield, though he knows it’s coming. Fury gets the two of them on the first flight to New York that Steve can stay upright for, and it still takes Sam’s hand on his elbow to keep him going in a straight line. And then they’re in a city that used to be Steve’s entire world. 

Now, he just wishes they could go home to Sam’s home in DC and hide away from the rest of the world. 

It doesn’t happen, of course. They take a private car to Stark Tower and ride the elevator in silence. Steve has the shield in a bag, the strap slung over one shoulder, but it’s just a formality at this point. They both know what’s coming. 

Steve tries not to feel awkward, he really does, because he and Sam have been through hell and back together. But this is a different type of vulnerability, one where Steve’s head only comes up to Sam’s chin and Steve can’t even read the numbers on the elevator buttons, because he still hasn’t ordered contacts, though he really should. 

It takes longer for them to get on the elevator than it should, because Steve’s clearance is denied by the scanner, twice. One of the few things the serum didn’t change was his fingerprints, which means he’s been wiped from the system. 

After a third try, Sam places his hand on Steve’s shoulder, gently, but it still feels like trying to hold up the sky. He moves out of the way, and Sam tries. 

The scanner flashes and lets them onto the elevator. 

Someone’s already wiped Steve from the system and replaced him with Sam. Steve tried to act like it doesn’t slice at him, uses the disadvantage of his height to hide his face from Sam. 

They go directly to the floor that has been set aside for Steve’s use since Loki, though he wonders if it, too, will technically become Sam’s. This is the first time Steve has been here, because he never really felt comfortable in this neverending mass of metal and glass. 

It’s sparse, to say the least. The walls are a soft color, one that's murky due to his colorblindness but he guesses is probably brown. It seems like it should be at odds with the high ceilings. The furniture is all basic stuff, the kind you order out of a catalog, but still probably more expensive than anything Steve has ever owned. The kitchen, which opens directly into the living room, is full of stainless steel appliances with solid granite countertops. The far wall is entirely made of glass. 

Sam whistles and says, more of a statement than a question, “Stark never half-asses anything, does he?” 

Steve doesn’t answer, because a remark like that doesn’t need one. 

There are two bedrooms, one on each side of the living room, and Steve heads straight to the one farthest from the front door, Sam still behind him by the entrance. 

He eases open the door and steps into the room. It’s the same bland color as the rest of the apartment, but the bed is huge and there’s a walk-in closet and a bathroom. The driver told them their luggage—which really just amounts to two duffels and a backpack—would be delivered shortly, so all he has with him is the shield. 

Steve drops the bag on the bed and slowly unzips it, revealing red and white, and then a color that should be blue as well. He forgot, what it was like, manually adjusting for shades he can't actually see. At least now, he knows what they should look like. 

He stares at the star in the center for a long, quiet minute. 

Then he picks it up with both hands—it’s too heavy, now that he’s back to this size, for him to hold it like he used to—and walks back through the door. 

Sam is by the window, admiring the skyline. He turns when he hears Steve, looking ecstatic with his mouth half-open, like he means to say something, but when he sees the shield his smile drops. 

“Steve—” he says, and stops. 

Steve drops his gaze to the lip of the shield, so he doesn’t have to see Sam’s kind eyes as he says, “it’s alright.” 

They both know that’s a lie, but he continues anyway. 

“I— I wanted to give it to you now, when it’s just us. So,” he gestures outward, pushing the shield closer to Sam. His arms are already starting to sag with the weight of it. “...here.” 

Sam reaches out, and Steve watches as his big, steady hands come out and take hold of the shield, helping to ease the strain. They stay like that for an endless moment, just the two of them and the shield between them, even the sounds of the city muted from being so far up, and then Steve lets go and curls his arms to his chest. He goes back to his room and closes the door behind him. 

* * *

Sam gets a text on his phone less than an hour after Steve disappears into his room and fails to re-emerge. It isn’t a saved number, but it tells him to take the elevator up another fifteen floors, so Sam thinks it’s safe to assume it’s probably Stark. 

He glances at Steve’s door before he goes, but there’s nothing aside from silence in that direction, so he leaves without letting Steve know. 

The shield feels heavy in his hands when he picks it up. Sam had put it down on the couch after Steve walked away, and he isn’t sure he wants to hold it again so soon, but something tells him he might need it for this meeting. 

Sam slides his right arm through the straps and tries not to pay any more attention to it. 

The elevator doesn’t talk to him as he goes, though he knows it can from stories told in run down motel rooms and too-small rental cars. Sam tries not to take it personally. 

Another scan of his finger is required to get off at this floor, and the moment Sam steps out of the elevator he can tell why. There are mechanical parts everywhere and robots rolling all over the place, and in the center of the mess is Tony Stark himself, half out of a bright pink Iron Man suit. This must be one of Stark’s personal R&D floors. 

When Stark notices Sam he says, “Ah! Just the little birdie I wanted to see,” and tries to step forward, only to fall on his face, since his feet are still in his boots, which are locked into a landing platform of some sort. 

Sam rolls his eyes and steps forward. 

“Was it really necessary to remove Steve’s clearance so soon?” He asks. 

Stark, still face down on the floor, manages to put off a guilty air anyhow. He turns his face too one side as he gets his arms underneath him. “It was a question of security. I’m sure you understand.” 

The worst part is, he does, and Sam hates it. He’s glad Stark can’t look at him right now. 

Once Stark extracts himself from his armor, he comes up and claps Sam on the shoulder. Sam lets Stark steer him off to one side, away from the majority of the chaos. 

“I’m glad you brought the shield,” Stark is saying. “Once we’ve talked logistics I think a little training session might be in order—” 

Sam doesn’t hear anything after that, because he catches sight of a truly _beautiful_ wing pack, sitting innocuously on a table in front of them. Even disengaged and with Sam a few yards away, he can tell they’re better than anything the military came up with for the EXO-7 Falcon program. 

He’s pretty sure he’s drooling but he also doesn’t care, because Stark nudges him forward and that’s all the encouragement he needs. 

Up close they’re even more beautiful, though maybe not the color scheme he would’ve chose. 

Sam can’t wait to try them out, especially with the shield. 

“A moment of your time, Wilson,” comes a voice from behind him, and Sam turns to see Fury there. Natasha and a really muscular dude in a purple shirt are with him. 

Suddenly the weight of the shield on his arm is more noticeable. Sam adjusts it, takes one last look at the wings, and follows the four of them further back into the room, where some soft looking couches are situated. Another man and woman are there, and Sam recognizes both of them instantly. 

“Colonel Rhodes,” he says, striding forward to take Rhodes’ hand, “it’s an honor, as always.” 

Rhodes shakes his hand firmly, smiling. “Wilson. Good to see you.” 

Sam gives his hand a final shake before turning and saying, “Agent Hill, it’s wonderful to see you too.” 

She laughs. “I’m not an agent anymore, but the same goes for you, Sam.” 

They shake hands as well, and then everyone settles on the couches. Half seem to be staring at him and the shield—notably, the purple dude is gawking, and Colonel Rhodes definitely has at least one eye on him—and the other half are staring at Fury and his cheap sunglasses. 

“As I’m sure we’re all aware,” Fury says, “Captain Rogers is no longer capable of wielding the shield. Mr. Wilson has agreed to take his place.” Fury turns his attention to Sam. “That includes joining the Avengers Initiative, of course. Colonel Rhodes will be taking over as the leader of the Initiative for the time being as War Machine and the official United States Government liaison, but we expect that Captain America will eventually resume a leadership role.” 

He figured that was the case, the reason why they are all here, but it still makes Sam’s stomach turn. Everyone else nods along seriously. 

They take some time to outline his proposed duties, Fury and Hill and Stark doing most of the talking, but Sam isn’t fooled. This isn’t an offer or a request, it’s an order. Sam had expected most everything they bring up, but it’s still jarring to have it laid out clearly: become Captain America; join a team of other superheroes; save the world as required. And maybe do some charity work, while he's at it. 

He tries to tell himself it’s like the Falcon program mixed with his work at the VA, just on a bigger scale, and it mostly works. 

“I have a job you know.” It’s the best objection he can come up with right now, though Sam knows there are others. His brain feels like a giant ball of static, and it’s frustrating, but he isn’t sure how to fix it right now. 

Rhodes almost looks apologetic, but he still says, “we’ve already spoken to your supervisors. They were remarkably understanding, given the circumstances.” 

Sam’s stomach clenches at the thought of just… giving up his life in order to do what these people want. He worked hard, after he got out of the service, to build a life that he could be proud of, where no one was giving him orders and he was doing something that helped more than it hurt. He tightens his jaw and looks down, because he knows he has no choice in this—not really, not with the power they have, even after the fall of SHIELD—but it fucking _sucks_. 

A lull in the conversation follows, because Sam won’t let himself talk and no one else seems interested in being the one to break the silence. The whirr of the robots in the background the only sound, and then the unnamed dude in purple speaks up. 

“Not to be a Debbie downer here, but isn’t anyone concerned about someone without Cap’s mods doing Cap’s job?” 

Of the people in this room, only Sam and Colonel Rhodes should have access to Sam’s file from the program. Theoretically. In reality, he’s sure Fury has read it, maybe Hill too, and Sam handed the file to Natasha himself, what feels like a lifetime ago. 

Rhodes is the one to respond, and his voice snaps Sam back to his Air Force days when he says, “I hope you don’t think Steve was the first person genetically modified by the United States government.” He catches Sam’s eye and holds his gaze. Sam nods minutely. The truth will come out eventually; better to do this here, where he can control it. He did what he had to do in order to serve his country in the way they asked him to, he won't be ashamed of that. Other things, yes, but not that. “Because he certainly wasn’t the last.” 

“And,” Natasha says, voice a little rough, like always, “you’re a deaf superhero, Barton. Not even impairments are impairments in our field.” 

Barton brings one hand up to scratch the side of his neck. Sam sees the hearing aid, but also the way Barton’s massive biceps flex. Now that he knows his name, Sam recognizes him as the archer from New York. He probably should be offended by the question, that people are already doubting him, but judging by the sheepish look on Barton’s face, Sam thinks this is probably a case of simply not thinking before speaking. 

“So you’ll agree to do it then,” Fury asks, but it’s not a question, not really. Sam nods anyway. 

“Great!” Stark says. He looks a little jittery. “Is it time for team bonding yet?” 

There will be forms to sign later, contracts that will make it official. But it’s all just formalities at this point. Just like that, Sam’s an Avenger. 

He’s Captain America. 

Holy shit. 

*

It’s actually about three weeks before Sam can really try out the wings, rather than just running tests, because there are still some final adjustments that couldn’t be made until Sam himself was present. For the most part, the shield sits at the foot of his bed as they use the time to catch him up on current relevant threats and hand-to-hand training with Natasha and Clint. Once or twice though, he brings the shield down to the training floors and practices throwing it. Sam’s mind has always been built for spatial awareness—he wouldn’t have lasted in the military or the Falcon program otherwise—and it’s relatively easy to get the hang of it. 

He hardly sees Steve, who’s taken to spending nearly all of him time in his room. Sam understands why, he can’t imagine what’s going on in Steve’s head right now, but it would be nice to see more of his friend than crumpled paper in the trash and dirty dishes in the sink. 

It’s late one night when Stark texts him about the wings. Sam is making a slightly sad can of soup for one and contemplating just knocking on Steve’s door until he opens it. He leans back against the counter. The kitchen table is missing a chair, and he wonders when that happened. His phone goes off. 

He reads the text and barely remembers to turn the stove off before he’s out the door. 

The elevator ride seems excruciatingly slow, and Sam nearly trips over the threshold in his haste to exit. 

Stark and Natasha are there, both doing their versions of grinning broadly—Natasha’s, of course, is much more subdued than Stark’s. If he didn’t know her, Sam might think she didn’t feel one way or another about this. 

She quirks an eyebrow. “Where’s the shield?” 

Sam looks down at his empty hands and curses and runs back to the elevator. The others laugh at him as he goes. 

*

Later, once he’s back with the shield and strapping on the wings, _finally_ , he’s nearly breathless with excitement. Stark flits around, explaining all of the enhancements and changes from the original blueprints that he _somehow_ got a hold of. 

This floor opens to the air outside, with a balcony designed for the mostly vertical landings and take offs of the Iron Man suits, which may be a problem later. But for now, Sam finishes lacing up his boots, gives a cocky grin to Natasha, steps back so he won’t clip Stark, and engages the wings. 

They respond instantly, smooth and controlled as they release. He slides his hands into the grips and revels in the easy movement of it. They feel like an extension of his body, just as much a part of him as his hands or his heart. 

Damn, but he missed this. 

Sam lets go of one wing grip and swings the shield over his back, clipping it into place. 

It feels so good to have a pair of wings again, and Sam smiles before firing up the engines with a flick of his finger. 

Stark says something but Sam doesn’t hear it. He pulls his goggles down over his eyes and takes a few running steps. Then pushes off. 

He’s still inside, so he has to be careful of his tips and his height and the exhaust from his engines, but the ceilings in Stark Tower are high and this floor is spacious. 

Sam looks down. Natasha is smirking at him, off to one side of the room and leaning against the wall. Stark looks less than amused, hands on his hips like he’s planning on scolding Sam. 

Too bad Sam can’t hear him. 

His face hurts from smiling so broadly, but he wouldn’t be able to stop if he tried, so he doesn’t try. 

Stark holds the scowl for a moment longer before rolling his eyes. He gives Sam a thumbs up and Sam whoops before twisting toward the landing platform and, beyond that, the open air. His wings are too wide to fit through the opening, so he pulls them in. Somersaults through the door, still in mid-air. Snaps them back open. 

And then he’s free, not even a comm in his ear to tether him. 

Fifteen floors below where Sam just was, Steve Rogers frowns down at the paper before him. He sighs, crumples it, and throws. It joins all of the other wads scattered around an already full trashcan. 

*

The first time Sam ever flew in an airplane was also the only time, up until he joined the Air Force. 

His family wasn’t exactly poor, but they definitely didn’t have the money for flying places when driving was cheaper, especially for five people. 

This one time, though, was an exception: Sam was five, maybe six, and he was basking in a weekend alone with his mama. His dad was taking his siblings, Sarah and Gideon, with him on his latest trip to the seminar to teach as a guest lecturer for a few days, so it was just the two of them. 

Sam doesn’t remember what they did most of that weekend, but what he does remember went something like this: 

It was late when he mama shook him awake. She was dressed but her hair was still tied up with an old silk scarf. She said, “baby, we gotta go. Your auntie is in the hospital.” 

At the time, Auntie Jean lived in Cleveland. Sam wasn’t sure how they were gonna get there, since his dad has the car, and his parents always said it was too far of a drive anyway, but he got up and pulled on some clothes. 

His mama hailed a taxi and they were off. He still doesn’t know what airport they went to, but his mama got them two seats on an airplane to Cleveland, and they barely made it to their gate on time. They had to run, Sam stumbling along behind her as he tried to keep up. 

Mama talked to an older white man once they were on the plane, one who gave her scarf and their clothes a distrustful look—Sam still remembers the curl of his lip, even to this day—but moved to the aisle seat anyway so they could sit together. Mama took the middle seat, and Sam had the window. 

He was tired, and his mama encouraged him to fall asleep on the flight, but he looked out, after takeoff. Even though they were over the wing, he could see the lights of the city as it stretched out below them, and his little heart was sold. 

As Sam climbs up and up, past buildings he never had the chance to see in his childhood, he gets that same feeling. The lights catch on the cloud cover, creating a neon halo over his city. He’s not as high as he was that night, nowhere near that altitude, and he should probably be wearing an oxygen mask even this high, but that doesn’t matter. He’ll only be up here for a few minutes, but these wings are a promise that he can see the lights at night whenever he wants. 

Sam’s heart is so, so full as he hovers over his city. He loves DC, but New York will always be home. 

He laughs, though no one can hear it, and tucks the wings back. 

He dives. 

* * *

Steve knows he hasn’t exactly been social over the past month, as Sam learns the ropes of being Captain America and a part of the Avengers, few as they seem to be at the moment. He knows he’s being a shitty friend but that doesn’t stop him from waiting until he's sure Sam has left for the day to emerge from his room. 

Being small again sucks, to be blunt. He finally orders his contacts, along with all of the other prescriptions the doctors gave him back in Teotihuacán, but it still fucking sucks. 

Steve’s day begins with a slightly complicated routine that includes trying not to poke his eyes out while also keeping all of his pill bottles and their various instructions straight. Then he moves on to yoga, because he’s found it at least keeps his body loose, which helps—a little—with the pain, some days. He faces the big windows in the living room and fails at not thinking about how different the skyline is now. 

It was one thing, to be in New York when he had the serum, because he never spent much time here after Camp Lehigh—only a few days on the bond tour. With the serum, Steve could almost pretend he was a stranger in his city, especially after he came out of the ice. 

Now, though? 

It’s like a version of him from 1941 was thrust into the future. Medicine may have given him the chance to live longer, but it can’t change the fact that he doesn’t belong here. 

When he finishes, he sits at the kitchen table and tries to draw. Steve isn’t sure where the sketchbooks are coming from, or who leaves them for him every time he gets close to finishing the current one, but he does his best to appreciate them. It works a lot better on days when it doesn’t seem like all he can draw are reminders that everything is different. Of course, that’s assuming he even manages to draw at all. 

Days when he can’t bring himself to draw, or read a book, or even turn on the TV are the worst of all. 

In the end, it’s Nat who breaks his self-imposed exile. 

She catches him mid-Tree Pose, but doesn’t say anything as he finishes his routine. Steve isn’t surprised, when he thinks about it, because both Nat and Sam are equally intolerant of his bullshit, but she’s the one more likely to do something about it. Normally, he appreciates that—it was a lifesaver that first month after SHIELD shipped him down to DC—but now, he’d much rather have Sam’s ability to be even more stubborn than Steve is. 

Nat lets him shower and get dressed, and then she’s dragging him out the door. It’s another reminder of the difference from before, because now he can barely see over the top of her head while on tiptoes. And Nat might be smaller than him, but she’s made compact muscle with a steel core, while Steve still wheezes on the stairs, even with his daily asthma meds and emergency inhaler. 

They take the elevator down and leave the tower, merging with the seething mass of pedestrians, all hurrying on their way. 

Nat doesn’t talk as they go and Steve is content to let her lead, so he stays quiet. She’s on his bad side anyway, and he still hasn’t decided if he wants to get any sort of aid, so anything she says right now will be lost in the noise of the city around them. 

Steve may not be able to see anything more than a blurry blob in the mirror every morning, and one of his ears doesn’t work properly, but he can still tell when he’s being followed. That was a skill anyone who frequented the queer bars of Brooklyn learned real quick. 

After another two stoplights he turns to Nat and asks, “is it one of ours that’s tailing us?” Because that would make sense, given who he is and his recently developed inability to fend off the world, though God knows he’ll still try. 

But Nat shakes her head, a tiny movement that’s harder to notice now, and Steve squares his shoulders. 

There’s not much an assailant can do in a crowd like this, unless they’re willing to cause massive civilian casualties in the process. Steve hopes that’s not the case, because those are always the worst fights to pick yourself up from after, knowing that someone may have died because you weren’t able to keep the fighting as contained as you should have. 

If they’re lucky, their tail will follow them to a less populous area, and then Nat can deal with them. 

Steve will help if she needs it, of course, but if Natasha needs help there won’t be much he can do. Despite what Bucky used to think, back home, Steve always knew what his track record was like when it came to fights, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have to try. Someone had to do something, in those types of situations, and if no one else was willing, Steve would always step up, even at the expense of his own body. 

Things become more complicated a block later, when their tail is joined by two more. Steve can’t get a good look at any of them, but he knows they’re there, and so does Nat. 

She can probably handle three attackers rather than one, but it’ll be tough, especially if she’s trying to protect him as well. 

Nat pulls out her phone and fires off a text, and then she links their arms. 

The two of them have been walking for a while, long enough that Steve’s back has started to twinge and the morning rush is tapering off. Steve tries to get a peripheral glimpse of this guys as he pretends to look at store signs, but he can’t get the right angle with his contacts in. 

Their tails are joined by a fourth, and though there are still people on the street around them, it’s not enough to stop these guys from whatever they’re planning. 

Steve and Nat are just reaching the mouth of an alleyway when four things happen nearly at once: 

Their tails start to move in— 

Nat’s phone pings— 

She shoves Steve into the alley with enough force to knock him over and yells _“stay here!”_ — 

And the familiar sound of a jet, but smaller, flies overhead. 

Steve gives it a few seconds, waits until even he can hear the sounds of a fight, and then he stands and moves so he can see out into the street. 

There’s definitely more than four assailants now, and Steve watches as Nat takes down two with one beautiful move. She starts on another and has him motionless on the ground in the span of a breath. 

Then Steve sees Sam, and it’s not at all surprising that he’s the one Nat texted. 

Sam has his wings and the shield, and he manages to use both in a brutally efficient way. He flies, and throws and catches the shield. He knocks out at least two of the attackers with the wings themselves, spinning right into his next attack. Sometimes he clips the shield onto the back of his pack, to better maneuver as he flies. 

Because of his bad ear, and the sounds of the fight before him acting as a distraction, Steve doesn’t notice the approaching woman until it’s almost too late. He dodges her punch at the last moment and falls back over in the attempt. 

She’s massive, almost as big as Steve was with the serum. She stalks forward as Steve scrambles to stand. He comes up with a garbage can lid in one hand and the other formed into a fist, both brought up to protect his face, even though he knows she could probably snap him and the lid in half with very little effort. 

“Normally,” he says, already panting and trying to stall for time, “I wouldn’t hit a lady, but I’ll make an exception for you, doll.” 

She bares her teeth and pulls one arm back— 

Only to go flying. She crashes headlong into the brick of the alley wall, and doesn’t get up. 

Steve drops the lid and his fist and turns, already knowing he’ll see Sam, and there he is, still hovering where he probably stopped right after kicking the woman. 

He looks great, mid-air in his uniform with the shield on one arm. Steve gives him a wry smile and starts to go find Nat. 

He hears Sam land heavily behind him and keeps walking when Sam says, “Steve.” 

Steve almost thinks he’s gotten away with it, though he should know better, because Sam takes his arm and says, again, “ _Steve._ ” 

He stops walking and lets Sam turn him around to check for injuries, since apparently Steve is delicate enough now that every scrape and bruise requires checking, lest he bleed out and die. He scowls and crosses his arms. 

“Are you alright?” Sam asks. 

A part of Steve knows he shouldn’t, knows Sam is just trying to be a good friend, but he still snaps, “leave me alone, I’m not a fucking flower.” 

“No,” Sam says, frowning. He looks like he wants to cross his arms but he still has the shield on one arm. “You just had to go and pick a fight with the biggest asshole that was trying to attack you.” 

Steve bristles. “I didn’t exactly _pick a fight_ ,” he spits. “She went after _me_ , in case you missed that.” 

“Oh, so _goading _her was a good—”__

__“Yes! What did you expect me to do, just lie down and let them kill me however they want?”_ _

__“Of course not!” Sam cries, and drops the shield to the ground in order to bring his hands up to his head. It clangs loudly. He looks so fiercely frustrated, and Steve hates him for a moment, because he has _no right_ to act like Steve is being irrational for putting up a fight. _ _

__And, because Sam is still in his uniform, which means Steve has to crane his neck back in order to look at him. He can’t see his eyes because of the damn goggles. Their physical differences could not be more apparent than in this moment, and he _hates it_. _ _

__“Of course not,” Sam says again, and curls his shoulders in like he’s trying to make himself smaller. He holds his elbows, not quite crossing his arms. “But I need you to fucking _think_ before throwing yourself into a fight now, okay? Your body can’t—” _ _

__“No _shit_ , Sherlock. I managed just fine without the serum for the first twenty-four years of my life, I think I can manage—” _ _

__“You had someone to pull you out of all the stupid shit you did, Steve, it’s not the same.”_ _

__Steve snorts and gestures to—all of Sam. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be? Captain America, Avenger, Defender of the Poor and Weak?”_ _

__Sam work his jaw for a moment. “I’m not here to be your bodyguard just because you feel pissy they took the shield from you.”_ _

__It feels like a physical blow to the chest, but Steve snaps his mouth shut so quickly it makes his teeth hurt, because he doesn’t trust himself not to say something he’ll want to take back later, whether he means it or not now. Of course he’s mad they took the shield, that he’s lost the advantages of the serum. And Sam is an easy target, because he’s here, in front of Steve with everything it feels like Steve lost. But he’s still Steve’s friend._ _

__Sam’s eyes are inscrutable behind his goggles. He straightens up and crosses his arms, like he won’t let himself regret what he said._ _

__He shouldn’t. It’s true._ _

__Steve looks away._ _

__Nat stands a few yards away, staring in their direction, the unconscious assailants around her already ziptied. Steve starts walking toward her, and this time, Sam lets him go. Nat is quiet and still when he reaches her side, her hair a messy halo around her head._ _

__Steve shoves his hands in his pockets and says, “When the agents get here, can we go back to the Tower?”_ _

__He doesn’t call it home, because it isn’t._ _

__Nat touches his elbow, once, gently, and nods._ _

__*_ _

__  
__  


They get back before Sam does, because he insisted on staying to help with the clean up, and neither of them argued with him.

There’s going to be a debriefing, but since he’s a civilian now it won’t involve Steve. Nat rides the elevator with him to his floor. She touches his elbow again as he goes to step out, and hugs him when Steve turns toward her. He sighs, hides his face in her soft hair, and breathes in the unassuming scent of her shampoo. He brings his arms up around her slim waist. She rubs his back, up and down and up again, and then releases him. 

Steve grabs a snack from the pantry and retreats into his room. His body aches from being pushed around, but he sits on the slightly uncomfortable chair positioned by the window, the one he took from the kitchen table ages ago, and clicks on the little reading lamp, though he doesn’t really need it. It’s not even noon yet. 

He puts his phone on silent and throws it on the bed. If anyone wants to bother him, they can fuck off right now. The goldfish crackers he grabbed certainly aren’t his favorite, and he isn’t really hungry, but Steve eats them anyway. Then he leans back and closes his eyes. It’ll be hell on his body later, the bed would be better, but Steve doesn’t care. 

He drifts into sleep. 

When he wakes, it’s to the muffled sound of a door closing. Before, Steve would have been able to hear Sam’s feet on the hardwood floors, but now, he has to content himself with waiting to see if Sam knocks on his door. 

Steve sits up and stifles a groan, because _fuck_ his body hurts. The sun must be setting on the other side of the building, because the sky outside his window is probably brilliant, the clouds lit up even in his messed up vision. He turns his head toward the window, too sore to shift entirely, and waits. 

He barely makes out the sound of Sam’s door opening and closing, but he does. 

Steve sighs and leans forward, covering his mouth with his hand. His hair is nearly long enough to hang in his eyes—he hadn’t realized it had grown so much. 

If there’s a way to fix this, he doesn’t know how. 

Across the living room, behind his own closed door, Sam sits on the edge of his bed. He props up the shield with both hands and stares at it, wondering the same thing. 

*

If there’s one benefit to the failed attack, it’s that it seems to finally knock Steve out of his cycle of self pity. He wakes up the next morning with the urge to _do_ something. 

It’s refreshing, honestly, even if he still needs someone to come with him so he can get in and out of the damn elevator. 

He texts Nat after getting his contacts in and spends the rest of his morning routine with half his attention on his phone, but it doesn’t go off. 

It’s not until Steve’s eating breakfast over the sink—just something small, so he can take the meds that require food in his system first—that there’s a knock on the front door. He finishes off the last bite, dry swallows the pills, and goes to open the door. 

It’s Barton. 

Steve blinks. He didn’t know Barton was still in the Tower, but when he cranes his head back—and back, holy shit he’s tall—it’s definitely Barton. 

“Steve?” He asks. 

“Clint,” Steve says back. He’s still sort of surprised, to be honest. “What’re you doing here?” 

Barton shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. “Nat said you needed a shopping buddy?” 

Steve sighs and rubs at the space between his eyebrows, but motions Barton in anyway. 

“Give me a second to get dressed,” he says, and leaves Barton to his own devices in the living room. When he comes back out a few minutes later, in comfortable jeans and a soft long-sleeve shirt he ordered online, it’s to the sight of Barton halfway into the air duct vent on the wall, nearly twenty feet up. Steve isn’t really surprised, and he doesn’t ask. 

They aren’t attacked on their way to the nearest Supercuts, which is down toward lower Manhattan. It’s a relief. It probably helps that Barton insists they take one of Stark’s private cars, though the perpetual New York traffic means it takes nearly as long to drive as it would to walk or take the subway. 

Barton doesn’t say anything about Steve’s choice. Any of the others, with maybe the exception of Sam, if they were currently on speaking terms with each other, would try to convince him to go someplace nicer, more fitting for the amount of money the US Army apparently dumped in a bank account for him when he was found. Clint doesn’t, and Steve appreciates it. Supercuts was the first place he got his hair cut after he woke up from the ice, even before the aliens attacked, and it was where he finally decided that it might be time to get a more modern hair style. He feels a strange sort of loyalty to the chain. 

He also appreciates that it’s relatively cheap. Steve can’t imagine spending as much money as some people do on a haircut. 

The driver drops them on the curb and melts back into the flow of cars. Steve doesn’t know how they’re going to get her to come back, but he trusts Barton to have a way. 

It’s a little hole-in-the-wall place, like most stores in the city. He admires the building for a moment, wondering how old it is, and then they walk through the door. 

The girl at the cash register is young, probably just out of school, and she sizes them up as they approach her. Steve tries not to scowl. He knows he looks ridiculous, barely bigger than a child next to Barton’s bulk and age—theoretically, Barton is just old enough to actually be his father, which _actually_ makes him scowl—but she doesn’t have to make it so obvious that she’s noticed, thanks. 

All she says, in a blatant this-is-my-customer-service voice, is, “welcome to Supercuts! My name is Inês. Are you both here for a cut?” 

Barton laughs, but it’s gentle, and so is his hand on Steve’s shoulder for a brief moment. 

“Nope,” he says, “we’re just here for my friend.” 

Inês smiles briefly, takes his name, and directs them to a tiny waiting area with three small chairs and a table of magazines, telling them someone will be with Steve soon. Clint hardly fits in his seat and Steve hides a snicker behind his fist. 

Steve reaches for a magazine to pass the time, but Clint snatches them all up and holds them to his chest. Steve frowns at him, but Clint won’t meet his eyes, so he shrugs and pulls out his phone. 

He doesn’t have a Facebook, for obvious reasons, and the one time he went on Tumblr was pretty scarring, so Steve opens the Twitter app. 

The account has no ties to his identity, either as Steve Rogers or—formerly— Captain America: the icon is a blurry shot of the ocean, taken from Google images; he has the location setting turned off; the email it’s attached to is a random aol one he set up with a fake name. He’s still cautious about using it though, and never posts anything himself. 

Mostly, he follow celebrities, like Ryan Reynolds, who Steve is convinced is secretly Deadpool’s slightly-more-normal twin, and the Star Wars cast. There are some normal accounts thrown in there too, ones he somehow ended up following for one reason or another. He doesn’t follow the official Cap twitter, which, like all of the other official Avengers accounts, is run by a media representative hired by Stark Industries. 

He waits for the app to load, and then starts scrolling. It seems like everyone is talking about the same thing, and it takes him a minute to understand. When he does, he feels his body go cold. 

Sam. They’re talking about Sam. 

Well, they’re talking about Captain America, Black Widow, and the “innocent bystander” they protected during yesterday’s terrorist attack. People in the area must’ve pulled out their phones, because there are pictures and a few shaky videos. There’s even one of Sam and Steve’s fight after, though the person was too far away to pick up any sound. It makes Steve grimace but he watches it all the way through. Now, somewhat removed from the situation, he can admit that they both overreacted. 

Everyone seems to be focusing on one thing: this wasn’t the same Captain America as the one who fought in New York and DC. A few of the really astute ones draw the connection between the man with wings who fought in DC and this Cap, but most don’t. 

Steve keeps scrolling. He feels sick to his stomach but he keeps going. 

The vast majority of the tweets he sees are supportive—celebrities talking about supporting the new Cap, average civilians practically giddy over what a Black man as Captain America could mean. Some think it’s a publicity stunt, which makes Steve frown at his phone. 

And then there are those who are outright hateful—racist, bigoted assholes who have no problem spewing their vilest thoughts online where anyone can see them. Steve doesn’t know how these sorts of tweets ended up on his feed in the first place, but he starts blocking both the people who originally posted them and those who retweeted them with a numb, weary sort of resignation. 

He tries not to read them, but he can’t quite help himself. One of the first lessons he was taught—and subsequently ignored—about social media is to never, _ever_ read the comment section of pretty much anything. That’s what this feels like, in a way: the comments section has spilled into the rest of the platform, and it’s horrible. 

As his thumb hovers over the block button for the author of a particularly vile tweet, Steve blinks his way into a revelation. 

They _shouldn’t_ be allowed to talk about Sam this way. Sam wouldn’t stand up for himself here, even if he saw this, but that doesn’t mean Steve can’t fight for him. 

He can do this, at least. He presses the reply button and waits for the keyboard to pop up, and then— 

“Steve?” 

He looks up. There’s a young man standing before Steve and Clint, an easy smile on his face. His hair is very, very purple. 

“Which of you is Steve?” he asks. Clint points and the man shakes Steve’s hand. “Hi, I’m Daniel. I’m ready for you, if that works?” 

Steve glances down at his phone screen just as it shuts off. He sighs but doesn’t turn it back on. He stands and moves to put it in his back pocket, but Clint holds out a hand before he can so much as shift his weight. Steve twists his face into a question and Clint replies only by raising an eyebrow. 

Steve rolls his eyes but hands over his phone and follows Daniel to the chair he indicates. It’s toward the back of the little shop and Steve immediately likes how warm the lights are on the exposed brick of the walls. It’s a cozy space, and he lets his shoulders drop, though he hadn’t realized he’d been so tense in the first place. 

Daniel tells him to sit and disappears from Steve’s view. Steve settles back and makes himself relax into the chair. Daniel reappears with a cape thrown over his arm. He wraps one of those white strips around Steve’s neck, and it’s only through practice and conscious effort that Steve keeps breathing, that his mind doesn’t white out at the pressure and stay that way. He’s small and relatively weak now, but that wasn’t always the case. 

The first time he got a haircut after coming out of the ice—didn’t go so well. 

Daniel clasps the cape in place and smiles at Steve in the mirror. He does his best to smile back. 

“So, do you just need a trim, or are you looking for a new style?” 

Steve looks at his reflection, and the shaggy hair that’s hanging into his eyes and around ears. There are pictures hanging around the shop of smiling, beautiful people with stunning haircuts. Steve skips his eyes over all of them but they’re all over-styled and over-colored. He looks back at the reflection of Daniel. The purple is a little much for Steve right now, but he likes the style of Daniel’s cut. The front is still long and slicked back, but the sides are cut close to the skin. He likes it. 

“What do you call your hairstyle?” Steve asks. 

Daniel smiles wider. He says, “This is an undercut. Do you like it? I can do something similar if you want.” 

Steve hesitates. He’d look to Clint for his opinion, but Steve can’t see him from this angle, so he takes a deep breath and nods his head. 

It’s soothing to sit there and watch his hair be cut. Daniel is quiet, for the most part, but he makes sure to ask what Steve wants before each new section. Steve’s fringe gets trimmed back but stays longer than he’s had it since the forties. The cold clippers on the back of his head make him shiver, but the buzz of it lulls him after a while. Daniel shows Steve how to use product to style back his bangs, but he also says Steve could just let his hair be and it would look fine. The warm towel at the end has always been Steve’s favorite part, and he closes his eyes and lets the last of the tension slip from his shoulders. 

Clint whistles when Steve steps up to the register to pay for his hair cut and the bottle of product Daniel suggested. He gives a good tip, probably bigger than most people would give, but—what’s the point of the money from the army if he doesn’t use it for things like big tips? 

He gives Daniel one last smile before they step outside. Clint shoves his hands in his pockets and asks, “so. Where to next?” 

Steve frowns. He hadn’t really thought any farther than getting his hair cut, but he doesn’t want to go back yet. He thinks of the apartment, the same dull beige on all of the walls that he can’t see correctly. 

“Is there a Lowe’s nearby?” 

There is, in fact. Clint texts the driver and they wait a few minutes for her to pull up. It’s a five-minute drive to the store; Steve would’ve just had them walk, but Clint was having none of it. They’re dropped off on the sidewalk across the street and have to wait at the light for the crosswalk to turn—Clint won’t let Steve jaywalk even though they’re in Manhattan for Christ’s sake—but then they’re in the store. 

It’s small and compact, compared to stores like this in less urban areas, but this is what Steve grew up with, even if he has a hard time remembering that some days. It means the paint section, at least, is pretty easy to find. 

He makes a beeline there, and they start pulling color swatches. Between the two of them they only have one working ear and two eyes that can see color, but they figure it out. As they browse, Clint describing each shade in interesting terms, Steve notices that Clint is standing on his good side, and has been all day. Something occurs to him. 

“Clint?” he asks. Clint nudges him to continue. “If it’s okay for me to ask… Why did you decide to get hearing aids?” 

Clint scratches at the back of his neck, nearly knocking over one of the display stands of paint swatches in the process. He says, “Ah. I was in foster care for about a year before I joined the circus, and I was told it would make me more _marketable_ as a foster kid.” 

They both grimace. They grew up in different times with different circumstances, and Steve can’t imagine being told that, but he can imagine how it feels. 

Clint scoffs. “Didn’t work, of course, but the system paid for them so I wasn’t complaining at the time. I kept them because it made me marketable as a SHIELD employee. I just made sure not to grow too dependent on them.” He pulls out a swatch that’s too dark; Steve shakes his head. “Why, you considering it?” 

Steve shrugs. “I know it’s not the same, but it was one of the suggestions from the doctors when this,” he gestures along his body, “happened. I wasn’t—I hadn’t planned to, but I wanted to ask.” 

Clint hums and pulls out a color called “Dainty Apricot,” which he describes as _watered-down orange_. Steve rolls his eyes but adds it to the pile, which only includes a few shades of _like, icy blue_ so far. 

They add another shade of gray-blue and a light yellow before Clint says anything else. “Do you know sign language?” 

“Not really,” Steve says. He wishes he could see these colors like he was able to, not that long ago. He can’t believe he took _colors_ for granted. “By the time I was in school, it was pretty much illegal to teach sign language. There were only a few Deaf and Hard of Hearing people in my school, and we were all taught to lip-read.” 

Clint grunts, and Steve thinks he may have been told something similar. 

“There were some short-hand signs we used with each other when we could manage it, but it wasn’t an official language.” Steve remembers how righteously furious his mother had been when he was a young boy and she was told by the Headmistress that she couldn’t continue teaching Steve how to sign. “I’m not sure I remember any at this point, even if they did match up with ASL now. I think I’d like to learn, though.” 

Clint nods, and they go back to the paint swatches. 

In the end, Steve decides on colors for his rooms there in the store. With Clint’s help, he gets two cans of the lightest, brightest shade of blue from their little pile for the bedroom, and one can of a color called “Icy Waterfall” that Clint describes as _not gray but not silver but not blue_ for the bathroom. Steve won’t decide on colors for the living room or kitchen without Sam’s input, but he brings home the “Dainty Apricot,” the yellow, and a deep shade of green to ask Sam’s opinion on. 

That is, if Sam is interested in picking out paint colors with Steve. It’s just a friend helping a friend with Clint, but it seems painfully domestic when he thinks about asking Sam. 

It isn’t until Clint drops Steve off at his floor—Clint carries the paint cans and the other supplies straight into the bedroom, thank god—that Steve remembers the nastiness on Twitter. He wants to do something about it, but his back is aching and the trip sucked any available energy out of him, so he resolves to deal with it tomorrow. 

He tapes the orange and yellow swatches up on a living room wall and adds a sticky note with a question mark on it, and does the same thing with the green in the kitchen. His phone vibrates with a text, and when he opens it, Steve smiles to see it’s from Clint, with suggestions for ASL classes. He’ll have to check them out later. 

Then he collapses onto his bed and sleeps until the evening. 

Sam still isn’t home. 

* * *

Sam spends the day after the attack holed away in a little office reserved for him on one of Stark’s R&D floors, up to his neck in paperwork. There are incident reports to fill out, as well as justifications for disobeying his standing orders—which were, more or less, that he had been grounded until explicitly told otherwise. Technically, that means he temporarily stole the wings and shield, and there’s another form for that. Stark stops by around noon and throws a few more at him, which turn out to be satisfaction ratings for the equipment. He rolls his eyes at those ones, but fills them out nonetheless. 

There’s more paperwork here than for anything he did in the military, and he doesn’t even _understand_ the point of some of them, but he dutifully fills them out anyway. 

Natasha wanders through the door sometime in the evening, carrying a box of pizza that smells absolutely _divine_ and a pile of papers Sam really hopes isn’t for him. They’re hers, luckily for him, and they spend a couple hours systematically working their way through both the pizza and the forms in silence. 

She claps him on the shoulder when they go to leave, and Sam knows they’re going to be chewed out some more tomorrow. Wonderful. 

He’s exhausted and it’s late, and he isn’t really surprised when he sees that Steve’s light is off. He’s still disappointed, though. 

Sam changes into his comfiest pajamas and wriggles into bed. He’ll talk to Steve in the morning. 

*

In the morning, however, he wakes up to a text summoning him to the conference rooms where the Avengers’ de-briefings usually are. He groans and checks the time, then groans again. He’ll hardly have time for breakfast, and there’s no way Steve is awake this early. 

Sam nearly misses them in his rush to the door, but he catches sight of a paint chip taped to the wall of the kitchen when he heads to the pantry to grab something that’s quick to eat. It’s a dark green, and he can already imagine it in the whole kitchen. It’s beautiful. He digs a pen out of the junk drawer and draws a check next to the question mark on the sticky note. 

He looks over his shoulder at Steve’s door as he leaves, and he notices two more chips in the living room. Sam grabs the pen again and jogs over. There’s a light orange that’s almost peach, and something he can only describe as “banana peel” yellow. He squints at them and the rest of the room for a moment before drawing a check on the orange. 

Then he’s out the door, and he more or less forgets about it for the rest of the morning. 

He and Natasha spend the morning getting dressed down by Fury himself, who deigned to come out of his deep cover again to address the breach of contract personally. They sit through it, because they have to, but Sam knows neither of them are really paying attention. They did what they had to to protect civilians—and Steve—and Sam isn’t sorry for that. He knows Natasha feels the same way. 

Fury ends with a stern glare, made sterner by the fact that he’s not wearing his sunglasses right now, but he knows the same thing Sam does. He sighs and says, “don’t do it again. Now get out.” 

Perfectly in time, Sam and Natasha say, “yes sir.” 

They step out of the conference room Fury commandeered and are immediately swept up to speak to one of the PR handlers that Stark Industries hired specifically to deal with the Avengers. 

She’s a no nonsense woman named Gabriela who frowns at them the entire time she speaks, which is impressive, because Sam didn’t know you could frown and talk at the same time. First, she berates Sam for breaking the terms of his contract and for appearing _in public_ in costume _with the shield._ Sam crosses his arms and doesn’t say anything. 

Gabriela turns to Natasha. “And you, Black Widow. You could not have called someone else as backup?” 

“No,” Natasha says, blinking innocently. Sam doesn’t believe her for a second, but he doesn’t say anything, because Gabriela is starting to rub his nerves raw. “Everyone else was busy or too far. I couldn’t handle them all by myself.” 

Bullshit. 

Gabriela sighs, an unintended show of weakness. Natasha is going to be all over that. “We’re going to have to come up with a press release that makes it look like we weren’t hiding him.” 

Sam doesn’t flinch but wants to, because that confirms they _were_ hiding him up ‘til now. 

Natasha grins, sharp and predatory. “Then maybe you should have written that press release a bit sooner.” 

She stands and tilts her head at Sam, one eyebrow cocked. He also stands, and they exit without being dismissed. Gabriela doesn’t try to get them back. 

“Forcing their hand?” Sam asks, but it’s no more of a question than her head tilt had been. 

Natasha shrugs elegantly and pulls out her phone. She smiles down at the screen, and this time it’s genuine. “You could say that. I have to go, Clint needs my help with something. I would suggest heading home, maybe.” 

Sam watches her walk away and weighs his options. He really should go home, because he and Steve need to talk, but he can admit he’s nervous. He said some things he probably shouldn’t’ve said, but he’d meant them at the time because he’s just so goddamn _frustrated_ with Steve. 

They need to have a real, grown-up conversation about this, before something like the other day happens again. 

He rubs his face and heads to the elevator. 

JARVIS still doesn’t speak to him, which is just rude. It’s not like Sam was the one who made the decisions that led up to this. He crosses his arms and leans back against the railing, trying not to take it personally. 

When he steps into the apartment, Sam has to stop, face slack and eyes wide in astonishment. Steve’s door is _open_. 

Steve’s door is open, and Sam can hear _music_. 

He kicks off his shoes and pads closer, socks quiet on the wood. Sam crosses the living room and hovers inside the doorway, trying not to draw any attention to himself. 

Steve’s room is as spartan as his own, but most of the walls have been cut in with a clear, light blue that reminds Sam of dawn runs around DC. The missing dining room chair is in here, and Steve is currently using it as a stool to cut in the top of the wall, up near the ceiling where he can’t reach. His hair is different: long, but neater, with short sides. As Sam watches, Steve reaches up with his free hand and pushes some of it out of his eyes. 

He’s singing. It’s terrible—out of time with the music and off pitch—but he’s singing. 

Sam leans against the door frame and just takes it in. 

Eventually, he takes a step back, because they do need to talk sometime today and he doesn’t want to startle Steve. Even still, when he knocks, Steve jumps and nearly drops his paint brush. 

“Clint, did you find that ladder I was—?” Steve never finishes, because he turns and sees that it isn’t Clint behind him. Sam gives a thin smile. “Oh, Sam.” 

Sam tries to twist his smile into something that looks a bit more friendly. He’s not sure he manages it. 

“Hey, Steve,” he says. “I was wondering if you’re up for taking a walk?” 

Steve might bristle at that, Sam isn’t entirely sure, but he still gets down from the chair. It’s something of a process to close up the paint and put away the brush so it doesn’t dry out, but Sam stays out of the way, letting Steve handle it. It’s partially to make up for the way he worded his question, and mostly because he knows pretty much nothing about painting. His sister helped with his DC condo when he first moved in, and that was the only place he’s lived that his landlord allowed him to paint over the stark, glaring white walls. 

He misses home. 

Steve pulls on an oversized sweatshirt before they go and proceeds to hide his face in the neck of it. Sam grabs his own jacket because it _is_ starting to get a bit cold out, and they leave. 

The nearest park is a short walk away. Sam is careful to match his pace to Steve’s without making it look like that’s what he’s doing, which is harder than he would’ve previously thought. They don’t speak—Sam, because he isn’t sure how to break the silence, and Steve for whatever his own reasons may be. 

The park is nearly empty when they get there, though it’s mid-afternoon. Sam shoves his hands in his pockets. 

They walk. 

Now that they’re here—near one another and not yelling—Sam can’t remember what he needed to say. They need to get all of this out in the open, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t know _how_. 

They should have talked about this back in that hospital in Teotihuacán, or when they first arrived in New York. They shouldn’t’ve allowed it to fester. 

In the end, Steve is the first to say something, when they’ve nearly gone a full loop through the park’s paths. He tucks his hands in the large pocket of his sweatshirt as he says, “are we gonna be okay?” 

Sam lets out a puff of air that’s not quite a sigh. “I’m not sure, Steve,” he says truthfully. 

Steve turns his face away and this time Sam does sigh through his nose. He dips his chin towards his chest. They pass a bench but Steve doesn’t stop to sit so Sam doesn’t offer. 

“I don’t know what you’re expecting to hear,” Sam says, “but I don’t know. I guess it depends on what we’re both mad about.” 

Steve lets out a ragged breath. “I thought that was obvious.” Sam doesn’t respond, letting the silence drag it out into the open instead of sticking his foot in his mouth on accident. “I’m pissed that the serum is gone and that they took the shield and I’m a little mad you’re the one they gave it to.” 

Sam tries not to bristle at that but fails. That’s not fair, they both know that Sam didn’t exactly ask for this. 

“I’m really fucking mad at all the things they’re saying about you on Twitter, and the fact that every time I try to gain a little perspective on everything that’s going on, someone swoops in to save me from myself or whatever.” 

Sam clenches his hands into fists within his pockets. He’s going to let Steve finish speaking, he will. That doesn’t mean he has to like it. 

“And—” Steve breaks off, breathing a little heavy. His shoulders are up tight around his ears. That tension won’t be doing his back any favors. “I’m—I wish everyone would stop treating me like I’m a wilting flower to be treated with care. I’m a grown adult and I can handle the repercussions of my own actions.” 

Sam wants to cross his arms, but he won’t pull his hands from his jacket’s pockets unless absolutely necessary. 

He’s so tired, but there’s also something mean burning in his chest. 

“That also means taking _responsibility_ for your actions,” Sam bites out, though he didn’t mean to open his mouth quite yet. Steve puffs up beside him, offended already. Sam pulls a hand free and waves it as placatingly as he can manage, which isn’t that much, to be honest. “You can’t go around trying to fight my battles for me. That sort of stuff—” 

“What?” Steve asks. “You expect me to just let people talk about you like that?” 

“Yes, Steve, god _damn_ it.” Sam blows out a frustrated breath. “I’m a Black man in a prominent, visible role that used to be occupied by a white man. You think I don’t know there are a lot of people who aren’t going to like that? But I can’t waste my time thinking about them or I’d never get anything else done.” 

“But—” 

“You don’t think that can’t be traced to you? That you’re not just putting yourself in danger? There are all sorts of assholes out there, and most of them won’t hesitate to hurt you.” 

Steve won’t look at him, which is fine, because Sam is trying to avoid looking back; it isn’t going so well on his end. He turns his face away and tries to count the dry, brittle blades of grass that line the walkway instead. 

“I’ve been in danger my whole life,” Steve says, “because I’m small and sick and queer.” Sam sort of wants to laugh hysterically, because he can’t believe Steve chose to come out to him right _now_. He doesn’t. “Then I was Captain America, and now I’m small again. A few internet fights aren’t going to make much of a difference.” 

His whole body feels flushed with a hot sort of anger he hasn’t felt in years, and Sam wants to shake him for being so dense. The nails of his left hand bite into the meat of his palm. “Did you learn _nothing_ from the attack the other day? What if they go after you when you’re alone?” 

Steve laughs, and it’s a cruel sound. “That would be more of a concern if I could even fucking _leave the apartment_ alone.” 

There’s another bench ahead, just off the path, and Sam makes a beeline for it. He needs to sit, to give himself the chance to pack away the words bubbling in his chest. The grass crunches beneath his feet. He drops onto it and takes his hands from his pockets so he can cover his face. He rests his elbows on his knees and just. Sits. 

Steve doesn’t join him. 

Sam counts his breaths until he’s not as likely to say something stupid. When he looks up, Steve is staring at him, eyes hard and serious. He looks so young like this, righteous anger wrapped up in a huge sweatshirt. Sam sighs. 

“You should be able to leave without needing someone’s help,” Sam concedes. “We’ll work on it. But Steve, you just _bailed_ when things went south.” 

“I had to figure my shit out,” Steve says. “And I was still there.” 

Sam laces his fingers together and squeezes. 

“I never saw you and we share the same apartment, that’s a little more than figuring your shit out, Steve,” Sam says. He’s trying not to use his counselor voice, because that isn’t what this is supposed to be, but he can’t be sure he’s succeeding. “And you never once stopped to wonder if _I_ was struggling, did you?” 

Steve gives him a sharp look. Sam has to turn away. He occupies himself with counting blades of grass instead. 

“I uprooted my whole life to come here on the whim of some shadow organization, after spending months chasing a ghost with you, which _I don’t regret_ ,” he adds, cutting off 

Steve’s response before it can begin. Sam doesn’t regret it, really, because he was helping a friend. “But it still fucking sucks. And now that the Initiative is going public with my role as an Avenger, everything’s about to get a whole lot worse.” 

Sam can practically feel Steve roll his eyes. “Yeah, because I have absolutely _no_ idea what you’re going through—” 

“You really don’t, though,” Sam cuts in. “You were already in the war zone when Captain America became anything more than an actor who sold war bonds. When you came out of the ice, it was to a legacy that’d had over sixty years to build up. The public adores you.” 

“But I saw plenty of people on Twitter who were excited that you’re Cap.” 

Sam sighs and leans back against the bench, feeling everything sort of drain out of him, leaving nothing but weariness. “It’s gonna mean a lot to a lot of people to have a Black man as Cap,” he admits. “It would’ve meant a lot to me, growing up. But their excitement will come with a lot of expectations, and I don’t want to let anyone down.” 

It feels naive, now that he’s said it out loud. Of course Sam is going to let people down; he can’t be everyone’s preferred version of Captain America. Nothing in life works that way. 

Hesitantly, Steve sits down next to him. There’s less than a foot between them. Sam wants nothing more than to lean into Steve’s shoulder and forget all of this, but he can’t be sure Steve won’t lean away, so he doesn’t move. 

After a minute, Steve says, “you’re right. I’m sorry. I can’t really understand what you’re going through, and I should’ve been there to support you.” 

Sam swallows. “It goes both ways, man. I’m here for you to lean on too.” Steve’s eyes go distant, like he’s remembering something from a long time ago. Sam understands, and gives him a minute before continuing. “But I do forgive you. And I’m sorry about those awful things I said the other day.” 

Steve shrugs with one shoulder. “They were true.” 

“Doesn’t excuse me treating you that way,” Sam says. Steve nods. 

“I forgive you, then.” 

They sit. 

He doesn’t think there’s any anger between them anymore, but Sam still feels as though he’s hit an unexpected patch of turbulence, one that threw him around for a bit before spitting him back out. He’s disoriented and uncertain, because he has no idea what comes next. There are other things they need to talk about, but he can’t quite grasp them right now. He doesn’t like the feeling of it. 

A jogger passes them, her ponytail swinging as she runs. She’s the first person Sam has seen in the park besides Steve, and it’s sort of jarring. His phone buzzes once against his hip but Sam ignores it. 

“So…” Steve says. “What now?” 

Sam shrugs. 

“We go back to the apartment and… paint, maybe?” 

Steve gives him a skeptical look, but stands when Sam does. 

It almost feels as though they have left something important behind on that bench as they walk away, but when Sam glances over his shoulder there’s only chipped paint and crushed grass. 

They go. 

*

They don’t end up painting, which is probably a good thing, since Sam still has no idea how to actually paint anything, let alone a whole room. 

When they get back, Steve grimaces and digs up a bottle of Tylenol from the junk drawer, saying it’s the only pain med he’s approved to take, though it doesn’t do much for his back. Sam hides his frown by standing behind Steve as he herds him toward the living room, where Steve plops down onto the couch. 

There are cans of paint and a ladder propped against the wall just outside Steve’s bedroom door, and Steve smiles when he sees them. Sam peeks at them as he walks by, and sees several cans each of pale orange and dark green. He has no idea how they got here—maybe Clint and Natasha? Sam remembers Steve saying something about Clint, earlier this afternoon. 

He busies himself making popcorn and grabbing other snacks while Steve fiddles with the remotes, getting the TV set up for whatever he ended up deciding on. They didn’t actually talk about a plan on the way home, but they both seem to be gravitating towards a movie and some time on the couch, which works for Sam. He hopes it’ll give them time to get used to each other’s presence again, without the likelihood of yelling. 

As he waits for the popcorn to finish, Sam realizes he hasn’t really spent any time here either, if you discount eating meals and sleeping. Maybe he’s been less available than he should’ve been, too. 

Sam gathers the snacks and settles into the slightly overstuffed cushions. He wasn’t sure if Steve has any allergies—shit, he really should figure that out, and probably clean the kitchen for good measure—so there’s a variety of things. Steve steals away the grapes, so Sam goes for the Oreos. Sam teases Steve over his choice of movie, because everyone knows that Mulan is the far superior princess to Ariel, but Steve is having none of it. He tosses a grape in Sam’s direction and it bounces off his forehead. They both laugh, desperate almost-giggles that go on for so long they miss the beginning of the movie, so Steve insists they start it again. 

This won’t be easy. There will still be massive, ugly, _mean_ fights, because they're both hot-headed, strong-willed, guilty of thinking they know best, and not afraid to say something nasty to make a point. It's a bad combination, as they've already seen. They’re going to have to work for their friendship, especially now that they’re on more uneven footing than they were when they met. Even if Steve transitions fully to a civilian life, he's going to be in danger by virtue of who he is and who he knows. Who knows when it'll be deemed safe for him to leave the Tower, permanently and unescorted. He can already tell that it'll be nearly impossible for them to live together once they start interacting, especially with Steve restricted to only a single space he has any sort of control over. 

But Sam glances over at Steve, who has happy tears in his eyes as he laughs over something in the movie. Sam’s chest feels warm and full at the sight of him, and he can't help but smile. 

It won’t be easy, but it’ll be worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Comments and kudos are always appreciated, but never required.
> 
> Read On,  
> Skats


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